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Combustible
it's more than an obsession
with words;
i wouldn't go as far as calling it
poetry,
it's something more.
this writer's fingers
bite down on something,
tightly clenched,
feeding off of thoughts
while the wrists
bend and twist
to the rhythm,
bleeding words
like splatters of blood
on walls
or pages.
this writer's mind
twists,then turns
through memories
of past,
present,
lost at daybreak
and found
on night's doorstep,
only to open the door
towards something more
than bargained for.
this writer's heart
and soul
ignite, then explode,
like july's sky,
a few intense moments
of excitement
that submit
then surrender
to total darkness.
it's the death
of one thought
or more,
depending
on how intense
and colorful
the grand finale became.
it's an autumn mourning
not a morning risen,
this viewing
displayed before opened eyes
as the writer closes their own.
would you call that poetry?
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